Friday, August 22, 2025

Building bridges beyond the table : Lessons on Customer Relationship Management



Building Bridges Beyond the Table: Lessons on Customer Relationship Management

Customer relationship is not just about contracts, negotiations, and project deadlines. It is about building trust, respect, and sometimes even friendships that last a lifetime. During my long career in Indian Oil Corporation, BHEL, and later in the private sector with Techno Electric Engineering, I experienced firsthand how cultivating deep personal bonds with customers and stakeholders can help overcome the most complex challenges.

In my view, customer relationships are not built in boardrooms or through formal agreements alone. They are forged on the ground, in moments of crisis, in the willingness to go beyond one’s defined role, and in the shared determination to complete a project despite all odds. When both sides align themselves to the common goal of project completion, they transcend the narrow boundaries of “client” and “contractor” and begin to act as true partners.


Early Lessons – Panipat (Haryana Electricity Board)

My journey with customer relationship at project sites began at the Panipat Thermal Power Station, where Mr. G. P. Sood, the Chief, became like a mentor to me. He openly admitted that his expertise lay in hydropower, not in thermal plants. This honesty created an instant bond of trust. I acted as his technical advisor and took decisions—even flouting certain BHEL restrictions—to ensure the plant ran during Haryana’s acute power shortage. That experience taught me that customer trust grows when you prioritize their problems over rigid rules.


Brotherhood at Singrauli (NTPC)

At Singrauli Superthermal Power Station, I worked with Mr. S. K. Dasgupta, an old colleague from Barauni Refinery. Our shared background as shift-charge engineers of captive power plants created a brotherly bond. Together, NTPC and BHEL worked as a single pool of experts, commissioning five 200 MW units in just two years—a record then. The lesson was clear: when both sides stop drawing boundaries, teamwork achieves extraordinary results.


Empowerment at Wanakbori (GEB)

At Wanakbori Thermal Power Station, I worked under the late Mr. K k Dharangdharia, who valued my frankness in admitting weaknesses. He gave me freedom to plan erection and commissioning. GEB contractors even sought my advice directly. This empowerment led us to synchronize to full load within just 24 hours, a record that brought rewards from GEB. The takeaway: empowerment and mutual respect are the cornerstones of customer confidence.


Friendship at Vizag Steel Plant

At Vizag Steel Plant, Mr. P. K. Chakraborty, Chief Engineer, became a family friend. We worked shoulder to shoulder during crises, and his support was always strengthened by Mr. B. N. Rath, CMD, who stood by us. Beyond the workplace, badminton became a bridge—Mr. Rath, a passionate player, would often come to my flat to pick me up, and we would proceed together to the CISF court. His closeness with me helped smoothen many inter-departmental issues. This reminded me that personal friendship often paves the way for professional harmony.


Memories from Indian Oil Days

This bond through sport reminded me of my Indian Oil days, when Mr. G. S. Harnal, DGM at Gauhati, would pick me up for badminton while I was still a trainee. Later in Barauni, our sporting bond gave me visibility and acceptance in the refinery community. A small reminder that shared passions outside the workplace create lasting professional goodwill.


Farakka Superthermal (NTPC) – Overcoming Trade Union Challenges

My last site posting was at Farakka Superthermal Power Station (1991–1994), where Mr. G. S. Sohal, GM NTPC, was already a close friend from our Singrauli days. Bengal was turbulent then—frequent bandhs and aggressive trade unionism tested progress. But our coordination and trust enabled us to commission 2×500 MW successfully. The experience reinforced that personal bonds act as shock absorbers in volatile environments.


ER HQ and Kathalgudi (NEEPCO)

Later, at BHEL Eastern Region HQ, my association with Mr. P K Kataki, Chairman of NEEPCO, proved invaluable. He was an IIT Kharagpur alumnus, like me, which gave us an instant connection. With his assurance, we tackled the Kathalgudi combined cycle project despite the looming ULFA menace. His back-channel talks even convinced insurgents that the project would ease Assam’s power woes. This was an extraordinary example of how leaders use trust and credibility to create security for execution teams.


Beyond Retirement – Suzlon Experience

After retirement, I applied the same principle while working with Techno Electric Engineering. With Mr. P. P. Gupta the owner and Chairman of TEECL, I forged bonds with late Mr. Tulsi Tanti of Suzlon and his chief marketing strategist Mr. I. C. Mangal initially Mr Gupta forged personal equation with Mr.Tanti. Their personal trust in me helped us overcome hurdles during the execution of our 211 MW wind power project. Once again, it proved that relationship capital is often more valuable than financial capital.


Rokhia Plant – Tripura

Another example was the Rokhia Plant in Tripura, where circumstances were especially difficult due to logistical challenges and local sensitivities. The cooperation between the state authorities, project leadership, and our team was not just contractual—it was built on trust and shared commitment. The Chief Engineer on the customer side worked with me almost like a partner, not as a counterpart across the table. Our alignment to the common goal of completing the project for Tripura’s power needs helped us overcome supply delays, terrain issues, and resource constraints. The experience showed once more that relationships built on mutual trust make even remote and complex projects achievable.


The Core Principle

Across all these experiences, one dictum consistently stood out:

In each case, the ultimate goal of both sides was the same — successful completion of the project. Once this shared goal was recognized, both sides naturally aligned themselves to it, transcending the narrow confines of contractual terms.

Two persons may sit on opposite sides of the table, but a common bridge can always be built. That bridge—be it technical trust, personal integrity, or even a shared love for badminton—transforms a transactional relationship into a partnership. When that happens, obstacles turn into opportunities, and projects turn into milestones.


Friday, August 15, 2025

Title: ScamBuster Jogenbabu: The Pensioner Who Played the Game

Title: ScamBuster Jogenbabu: The Pensioner Who Played the Game



In a faded Kolkata flat that smelled faintly of pickle jars and old books, lived Jogenbabu, a retired engineer in his late sixties, whose daily thrills included arguing with the ceiling fan and squinting at TV serials he couldn’t really see anymore. His son, now a software honcho in Silicon Valley, sent him a regular monthly allowance—which reliably vanished around the 18th of every month. His wife had passed years ago, and the silence in the house had grown louder since.

But there was one antidote to his creeping loneliness: Samaranand, a neighbor three floors down and a self-styled “retired-but-rewired idea man.” Over endless cups of chai brewed so strong it could stand on its own legs, Jogenbabu would sigh, “Life’s become a slow buffering video, Samaranand.”

Samaranand’s response? “Then let’s reboot you, dada. Not physically—digitally. We’ll make you an online rockstar!”

“Rockstar? I can barely operate my Nokia!”

“No worries. We’ve got tech support.”

Enter the entertainment duo:

  • Babulal – street-smart, always in flip-flops, and spoke three languages fluently—Hindi, Bengali, and Gibberish (especially when bluffing).
  • Soumya – a soft-spoken hacker who could unlock your iPhone with just your shadow.

“Dada,” Samaranand declared dramatically, “we are going to launch Operation Grandpa Glam.”


Act I: Instagramming a Tycoon

Soumya got to work. With some Photoshop, Jogenbabu was transformed: silver hair slicked back, draped in tuxedos he never wore, with luxury yachts he’d never boarded behind him.

On Instagram:
🧓 Jogen Roy – Retired industrialist. Collector of vintage wines. Seeker of fine company and finer biryani.

Facebook posts showed him “playing golf in Phuket” (he’d never held a golf club) and sipping champagne in Monaco (it was actually thumbs-up soda on the rooftop of Hotel Minerva, Park Street).

Within 48 hours—Bingo. His DMs were buzzing like a mosquito in a blackout.

“Hello sir… business proposal…”
“Hey handsome, I like mature men 😘”
“You interested in investing in diamond mines?”

Jogenbabu: “Samaranand, what is happening? These people are MAD!”
Samaranand: “No, dada. They’re just greedy. You’re their golden goose. Only… you lay rubber eggs!”


Act II: The Hookah Honeypot

Enter Rhea—Telegram’s top temptress. Sari-clad profile pic, smoky eyes, and an emoji game sharper than a politician’s promises.

“Let’s meet at The Misty Lounge,” she messaged.
Jogenbabu, trying to sound suave, replied, “My Bentley or yours?”
She sent back a wink emoji. He sent back a confused one by mistake.

That evening, Jogenbabu wore a borrowed blazer and practiced his “millionaire chuckle” in front of the mirror. It came out as a wheeze.

Babulal, in a cheap leather jacket and Ray-Bans (bought from a Gariahat footpath), shadowed him on a battered Yamaha that coughed more than it roared.

At the lounge, Rhea was all sparkle and sass.

Rhea: “You seem… loaded.”
Jogenbabu: “Emotionally or financially?”
Rhea: “Hehe, both I hope.”
Jogenbabu (with fake depth): “My wealth lies in memories... and offshore accounts.”

She ordered exotic hookahs, cocktails, imported olives, and what felt like the entire menu. The bill arrived: ₹18,000.

Jogenbabu’s soul briefly left his body.

Bar owner (hulking, gold-chain-wearing): “Payment, now.”
Jogenbabu: “Let me call my... um... wealth manager.”

Babulal stormed in, flashing a fake police badge like a Bollywood villain-turned-hero.

Babulal: “WHO is threatening my client? I smell a scam here!”
Owner: “What?! No sir! No scam! Just a misunderstanding.”
Babulal (whispering): “Release him, or tomorrow this lounge becomes a paan shop.”

Jogenbabu sauntered out like a Bond uncle, grinning. “Hookah toh bahana tha, Rhea toh drama tha!”


Act III: Enter the Big Fish

One rainy night, a slick guy named Vikram slid into his Insta DMs.

“Sir, want to double your money in a year? Invest in Paradise Retreats—Goa’s finest villa project!”

Jogenbabu: “Will there be wine cellars?”
Vikram: “Of course, sir. Personalized butlers too!”

Samaranand sniffed danger. “Dada, this one’s not like the others. He’s corporate-level crooked. Soumya, do your magic.”

Within hours, Soumya cracked it: Vikram was part of a real estate mafia, had political protection, and a record of muscle tactics.

Babulal: “We’re not just dealing with a scammer, dada. We’ve got a villain from season two of a web series!”


Act IV: The Great Goa Villa Sting

Samaranand drew up the plan like a military strategist. Jogenbabu would act the gullible investor, carrying a briefcase full of very realistic fake notes. Babulal’s market boys would play backup muscle. Soumya would leak the entire scam to a hungry news agency.

At the shady office in a dingy complex, Vikram greeted Jogenbabu with fake warmth and too much cologne.

Vikram: “Sign here, sir. You’ll be a 50% partner.”
Jogenbabu (leaning in, dramatic): “Only if I can name the villas after my dogs—Snuffy and Tiger.”
Vikram (confused): “Uh... sure?”

Just then, the door burst open.

Babulal (in full cop mode): “This is a raid! Vikram Malhotra, you’re under investigation!”
Goons tried to react. Market boys pounced. One goon screamed, “Is this Zee TV?”

In the chaos, Jogenbabu stood up, tore the fake contract, and thundered, “You picked the wrong pensioner!”

Outside, news vans rolled in.

Next morning, headlines screamed:
"Octogenarian Outsmarts Scam Syndicate!"
"Grandpa Goes Gangsta!"


Epilogue: The Rise of InstaBabu

Back at their HQ (a.k.a Samaranand’s flat), the gang sipped tea and munched samosas.

Soumya: “Dada, you’re trending. Real millionaires are messaging. One even offered you a private jet to Bali.”
Babulal: “Shall I book it? I’ll come as your bodyguard-slash-chaiwala.”

Samaranand: “So, Jogenbabu, what now? Scam the rich... or retire as a legend?”

Jogenbabu reclined, holding his cup high, eyes twinkling like streetlamps in monsoon mist.

“Why choose, my friend?” he chuckled. “Let’s continue the game. I still have a few personas left—next week, I’m a retired Maharaja.”

They all burst out laughing, as somewhere online, yet another scammer clicked follow—completely unaware he was the one walking into a trap.


To be continued...
(Because legends don’t retire. They trend.)

Thursday, August 07, 2025

The Night The Waters Rose



THE NIGHT THE WATERS ROSE
Memoir from Barauni, 1976
By S. N. Roy


When floodwaters crept into the heart of a refinery — and my home — duty, fear, and silent courage collided. But what I remember most is not the chaos of machines shutting down, but the quiet strength of my wife carrying our infant son to safety, alone.


A Duty-bound Dilemma

It was the monsoon of 1976, and the rains showed no signs of relenting. As the shift charge engineer of the captive power plant at Barauni Refinery, I was used to high-pressure situations — but that evening brought something different. Something far more unsettling.

Rainwater, unable to escape to the Ganges due to closed outflow gates, began to accumulate across the township and refinery complex. The Ganges itself was flooded, and opening the gates risked backflow — a technical and geographical Catch-22.

While others may have seen just puddles forming, I stood in the power house, watching the rising waterline inch towards the condensate pump which was in minus level. I had to act. With measured urgency, I initiated the shutdown of the power plant — the beating heart of the refinery — to protect equipment from catastrophic failure.

Even as I went through the motions of industrial protocol, my thoughts were elsewhere.


Home in Peril

In our modest township bungalow, my wife was alone with our one-year-old son. News came in fast — the township was going under. Water had entered the residential quarters. My mind raced, but duty had shackled me to the control panel. I had to wait for my shift to end.

Meanwhile, my wife, showing a calmness and courage that would later leave me in awe, sprang into action. With the help of our neighbour Ramchandra Ayyer, she lifted the refrigerator onto the dining table, opened the doors to allow water to flow through — not trap inside — and with our child in her arms, waded through rising floodwaters to the first-floor home of my dear friend, Late P. G. Das.

No mobile phones. No updates. Just instinct and trust.


A Lonely Vigil

By the time I finished my shift and returned after 10 p.m., the house stood eerily quiet. The main door was open, just as she’d left it. Water had risen inside, flowing beneath the bed like an obedient stream. The ceiling fan spun above, but the silence below was deafening.

I didn't know where my family was. I only hoped they had found shelter.

That night, I did not — could not — sleep. I kept vigil in that flooded house, all doors open, determined not to let the water rise higher, not to let the bedroom become a water tank. Every creak, every ripple of water in the moonlight, felt louder than thunder. I was surrounded by soaked walls and uncertainty. But I stayed. Not for material things — but because leaving felt like surrender.


A Salute to Her Strength

My wife never once panicked. She did not wait for instructions or rescue. She assessed, acted, and moved — carrying our baby through the night, through uncertainty, to safety. She did it all in my absence, while I stood knee-deep in responsibility at the plant.

Even now, that night haunts me. Not for its drama, but for its silence. For the image of an open door, a baby in a mother’s arms, and a man alone in his half-submerged home wondering what mattered more — his machines or his family.


Legacy of a Night

The Barauni flood of 1976 lasted days. The refinery took weeks to return to full operation. Equipment had to be dried, cleaned, rewound, recalibrated. But machinery can be repaired. That night taught me that love, trust, and courage — especially from those we often underestimate — are what truly power our lives.

My salute is not just to the workers who brought the refinery back to life, but to my wife — who, without fuss or fanfare, kept our family safe, and taught me what real strength looks like.

Friday, August 01, 2025

Adda 2055 -The Last Real Coffee House

Adda 2055 — The Last Real Coffee House


The Indian Coffee House, College Street, Kolkata — paint peeling, waiters in Nehru caps, ceiling fans whirring at their own sleepy rhythm. Amid this charming decay, at their forever corner table, the Fab Four of 75+: Ramu, Jadu, Shirish, and Amiyo were raising hell again. Their combined age could beat a banyan tree, but their tongues? Razor sharp.


Ramu (mischievous glint, stirring his thick coffee like a potion):
“Boys, I read yesterday that by 2055, people will be dating AI companions with built-in mood stabilizers. Imagine falling in love with a glorified Alexa. ‘Darling, how do I look?’ — ‘You are 98.7% stunning, based on global metrics.’ Bas! That's romance now.”

Jadu (rolling his eyes):
“Romance is dead, Ramu. It’s already buried under the 17 layers of gated community security. I visited one in Gurgaon last month—oxygen bar, mood lighting, even AI-generated flute music! No para. No tea stalls. No aunties peeking from balconies. Just sterile smiles and indoor air purifiers.”

Shirish (cracking his knuckles, techie mode on):
“Gated communities are just the beta version of future bunkers. By 2055, half the world will be unemployed thanks to robots making your coffee and wiping your—well, you know. The other half? Bored out of their diamond-studded skulls, doing yoga on Mars, maybe. I read rich folks in Japan now pay to experience ‘manual labor’ weekends. Imagine Mukesh Ambani digging potatoes for inner peace!”

Amiyo (peacefully sipping coffee, eyes twinkling):
“Shirish, you're missing the point. When everything becomes artificial, the soul will seek what’s real. Remember what Vivekananda said—‘You have to grow from the inside out.’ These burnt toasts and bitter coffees are real. By 2055, people will beg for ashrams with Wi-Fi and guided meditation bots chanting the Gayatri Mantra.”


Ramu (smirking):
“Wait till AI starts writing poetry in Tagore’s voice! And people will say, ‘Wow, this bot feels!’ Meanwhile, poor humans will be on prescription serotonin just to survive Monday.”

Jadu (nodding vigorously):
“Exactly! Already, Delhi’s AQI hit 450 last week. In 30 years, kids will think 'O2' is a luxury brand. Every gated flat will come with its own oxygen bank. And street-side adda? Replaced by AI moderators: ‘Let’s keep the conversation civil, folks.’ Bah!”

Shirish (with a dramatic sigh):
“And don't even mention jobs. In 2024, China’s factories cut 20% of workers with automation. By 2055, even IT guys will be out. Only civil engineers like me will matter—we’ll be the last humans building anything. I’ll be in demand till I’m 110!”

Amiyo (calmly):
“You might build oxygen bars and robot cafes, Shirish. But one question will remain: ‘Why am I here?’ And no robot can answer that. That’s where our real journey begins.”


Ramu (mock whisper):
“Careful, Amiyo. Say such things and the robots might flag you for philosophical subversion!”

Jadu (slapping the table, coffee nearly spilling):
“Hah! By 2055, humans will need a passcode just to feel emotions. Joy-153, Anger-406! And dating? You’ll have to subscribe: LoveLite™—Free hugs for 7 days, cancel anytime!

Shirish (laughing):
“Add a tier: LoveMax™ with real arguments and mother-in-law simulations!

Amiyo (smiling):
“You laugh now, but I say this: the soul is the last rebel. When the brain breaks down from AI overstimulation, when love becomes code, when no one talks at a tea stall anymore—then someone will search for silence. For meaning. For that one real cup of coffee.”


The four fell silent for a moment, sipping their real, gritty brew. Then Ramu broke the quiet.

Ramu (grinning):
“Alright then, boys. In 2055, we’ll launch a Real Adda CafÊ™. No bots. No filters. Just old men gossiping, burnt toast guaranteed.”

Jadu (saluting with his cup):
“And mandatory fights over politics. With spitting range arguments!”

Shirish:
“I’ll design it. Solar-powered, air-filtered, but with leaky roofs. Nostalgia sells!”

Amiyo:
“And I’ll add a meditation nook. Free Wi-Fi for the body, but a silent zone for the soul.”


As the laughter swelled and the ceiling fan creaked in approval, a waiter shuffled over with another round, grinning. These four? They weren’t just customers. They were the last philosophers of a fading world, holding court over coffee—and refusing to be digitized.


Epilogue: Their Forecast for 2055 – Now Served Hot with Coffee

  • Ramu: Love downgraded to AI apps; mental breakdowns rise like house rent.
  • Jadu: Oxygen bars replace tea stalls; gated communities crush para adda.
  • Shirish: AI takes over jobs; manual labor becomes exotic tourism for bored billionaires.
  • Amiyo: Tech may rule the mind, but the soul will seek shelter—in silence, in song, in Swami Vivekananda.

One real table. Four old friends. A future worth laughing over.

Wednesday, July 30, 2025

āφāĻĄ্āĻĄা āĻāĻ–āύ āĻ•ি āĻšāĻŦে āϤāĻ–āύ!

āφāĻĄ্āĻĄা āĻāĻ–āύ āĻ•ি āĻšāĻŦে āϤāĻ–āύ


(āϚিāϰāĻ•াāϞীāύ āϚাāϰ āĻŦāύ্āϧু: āϰাāĻŽু, āϝāĻĻু, āĻļিāϰীāώ āφāϰ āĻ…āĻŽিāϝ় — āϏāĻŦাāχ ā§­ā§Ģ āϊāϰ্āϧ্āĻŦ)



āϰাāĻŽু (āϚা-āϰ āĻ•াāĻĒে āϚুāĻŽুāĻ• āĻĻিāϝ়ে, āϚোāĻ– āφāϧ-āĻŦāύ্āϧ):
āĻ­াāχ, āĻĒ্āϰেāĻŽ āφāϰ āĻŦিāϝ়ে — āĻ āϏāĻŦ āĻāĻ–āύ āϏাāĻŦāϏ্āĻ•্āϰিāĻĒāĻļāύ āĻŽāĻĄেāϞে āϚāϞে। āĻŽুāϰাāĻ•াāĻŽি āĻ িāĻ•āχ āĻŦāϞেāĻ›ে — āϏāĻŦāĻ•িāĻ›ুāχ āϟ্āϰাāύāϜ্āϝাāĻ•āĻļāύাāϞ।
āφāϜ āĻ­াāϞোāĻŦাāϏো, āĻ•াāϞ Unfollow, āĻĒāϰāĻļু Emotional Detox! āĻāχ āϤো āĻĒ্āϰেāĻŽ।

āϝāĻĻু (āĻšাāϏāϤে āĻšাāϏāϤে āĻŽাāĻĨা āύেāĻĄ়ে):
āĻĒ্āϰেāĻŽ āϤো āĻĻূāϰেāϰ āĻ•āĻĨা, āϏāĻŽাāϜāϟাāχ āĻ­েāĻ™ে āĻĒāĻĄ়āĻ›ে āϰে āĻ­াāχ।
āĻ—েāϟেāĻĄ āĻ•āĻŽিāωāύিāϟি āĻ–ুāϞে āĻ–ুāϞে āĻāĻ•েāĻ•āϟা āφāϞাāĻĻা āĻĻেāĻļ!
āĻ“āχ āύিāωāϟাāωāύেāϰ āĻāĻ•āϟা āĻ•āĻŽāĻĒ্āϞেāĻ•্āϏে āĻ—েāϞাāĻŽ — āϏেāĻ–াāύে āĻĻাāϰোāϝ়াāύ āύেāχ, āϰোāĻŦāϟ āϏ্āĻ•্āϝাāύ āĻ•āϰে QR Code, āϘāϰে āĻĢেāϏিāϝ়াāϞ āϰিāĻ•āĻ—āύিāĻļāύ āϞāĻ•। āφāϰ āĻŽাāĻĨাāϰ āĻ“āĻĒāϰ āĻĻিāϝ়ে āωāĻĄ়āĻ›ে āĻĄ্āϰোāύ surveillance, āϝেāύ āφāĻŽāϰা āϜেāϞāĻ–াāύাāϝ়!

āĻļিāϰীāώ (āϚāĻļāĻŽা āĻ িāĻ• āĻ•āϰে, āϟেāĻŦিāϞে āφāĻ™ুāϞ āĻ ুāĻ•āĻ ুāĻ• āĻ•āϰে):
āφāϰ āĻ­āĻŦিāώ্āĻ¯ā§Ž? IT-āϟা āĻļেāώ! ChatGPT-āϰ āĻŽāϤ AI āϤো āĻ•োāĻĄ āϞেāĻ–ে, āϚ্āϝাāϟ āĻ•āϰে, āĻ—াāύ āϤোāϞে...
āφāϏāϞ āϟিāĻ•ে āĻĨাāĻ•āĻŦে hardcore āχāĻž্āϜিāύিāϝ়াāϰিং — āχāϞেāĻ•āϟ্āϰিāĻ•্āϝাāϞ, āĻŽেāĻ•াāύিāĻ•্āϝাāϞ, āϏিāĻ­িāϞ।
āĻ—্āϞোāĻŦাāϞ āĻ“āϝ়াāϰ্āĻŽিং āĻ েāĻ•াāϤে āϏোāϞাāϰ-āĻšাāχāĻĄ্āϰোāϜেāύāχ āĻ­āϰāϏা। āφāĻŽি āϤো āĻĒ্āϞ্āϝাāύ āĻ•āϰে āϰেāĻ–েāĻ›ি — “āϰিāϟাāϝ়াāϰ্āĻĄ āχāĻž্āϜিāύিāϝ়াāϰāĻĻেāϰ āϜāύ্āϝ āϏোāϞাāϰ āϏেāύ্āϟাāϰ” āĻ–ুāϞāĻŦ!

āĻ…āĻŽিāϝ় (āĻ—āĻŽ্āĻ­ীāϰ āĻ—āϞাāϝ়, āϚোāĻ–ে āĻļাāύ্āϤ āĻšাāϏি):
āϤোāĻŽāϰা āϏāĻŦাāχ āĻŦাāχāϰেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϞāϝ় āĻĻেāĻ–āĻ›, āφāĻŽি āĻĻেāĻ–ি āĻ­িāϤāϰেāϰ āĻāĻĄ়।
āĻŽাāύুāώ āĻŦাāχāϰেāϰ āϏāĻŽāϏ্āϝাāϰ āϜāύ্āϝ āϰোāĻŦāϟ āĻŦাāύাāĻŦে, āĻĄ্āϰোāύ āϚাāϞাāĻŦে, āĻ…āĻ•্āϏিāϜেāύ āĻ•িāύāĻŦে।
āĻ•িāύ্āϤু āĻ­িāϤāϰেāϰ āĻĢাঁāĻ•া āϜাāϝ়āĻ—া? āϏেāĻ–াāύেāχ āφāϏāĻŦে āϰাāĻŽāĻ•ৃāώ্āĻŖ āφāϰ āϏ্āĻŦাāĻŽী āĻŦিāĻŦেāĻ•াāύāύ্āĻĻ।
āϝেāĻŽāύ āĻ—্āϰিāĻ• āĻĻেāĻŦāϤাāϰা āĻšাāϰিāϝ়ে āĻ—েāϞ, āĻ•িāύ্āϤু “āφāĻŽি āĻ•ে?” āĻāχ āĻĒ্āϰāĻļ্āύāϟা āĻ•āĻ–āύো āĻšাāϰাāϝ়āύি।


āϰাāĻŽু (āĻŽুāϚāĻ•ি āĻšেāϏে, āĻ োঁāϟে āϚা):
āĻāĻ•āĻĻিāύ āĻĒ্āϰেāĻŽ āĻšāĻŦে ‘AI Love Premium’ āĻ…্āϝাāĻĒে —
“Try 7 Days Free. Break-up Button Optional.”
āφāϰ āĻŦিāϝ়ে āĻšāĻŦে Pop-up Contract, “Terms & Conditions Apply!”

āϝāĻĻু (āĻĻাঁāϤ āĻŦেāϰ āĻ•āϰে):
āĻāĻ–āύāχ āϤো āĻŦাāϚ্āϚাāϰা āĻ…āĻ•্āϏিāϜেāύ āĻŦাāϰ-āĻ āϝাāϝ় āĻĢ্āϰেāĻļ āĻšāϤে!
āĻ•āϞāĻ•াāϤাāϰ āĻŦাāϤাāϏে āĻāϤ āϧোঁāϝ়া, āĻāϤ PM2.5 āϝে āĻļ্āĻŦাāϏ āύিāϞেāχ āĻŽāύে āĻšāϝ় āϝেāύ āχāĻŽাāϰāϜেāύ্āϏি āϚāϞāĻ›ে।
āĻāχāϏāĻŦ āĻ—েāϟেāĻĄ āĻ•āĻŽিāωāύিāϟি āĻšāϚ্āĻ›ে āύāϤুāύ āĻ•িāĻŦুāϤ্‌āϜ — āĻ­িāϤāϰে āφāϞাāĻĻা āϏংāϏ্āĻ•ৃāϤি, āφāϞাāĻĻা Adda, āφāϞাāĻĻা Reality।

āĻļিāϰীāώ (āĻšাāϏāϤে āĻšাāϏāϤে):
āφāϰ āĻ“āχ āĻ•āĻŽāĻĒ্āϞেāĻ•্āϏে āĻĸুāĻ•āϤে āĻšāϞে āϞাāĻ—āĻŦে retina scan।
āĻŦাāϜাāϰ āĻ•āϰāϤে āĻŦেāϰোāϞেāĻ“ āϰোāĻŦāϟ āĻŦāϞāĻŦে —
"Sir, your oxygen levels are optimal. Please proceed to Bio-farm zone for pesticide-free lettuce."

āĻ…āĻŽিāϝ় (āĻŽৃāĻĻু āĻ—āĻŽ্āĻ­ীāϰāϤা āύিāϝ়ে):
āϤাāĻ“ āĻŦāϞāĻŦ, āϝāϤāχ automation āφāϏুāĻ• —
āĻāĻ•āϟা āĻŽুāĻšূāϰ্āϤ āφāϏāĻŦে āϝāĻ–āύ āĻŽাāύুāώ āĻ•্āϞাāύ্āϤ āĻšāϝ়ে āϤাāĻ•াāĻŦে āφāĻ•াāĻļেāϰ āĻĻিāĻ•ে।
āĻšāϝ়āϤো āϏে āĻĄ্āϰোāύে āĻ­āϰ্āϤি āφāĻ•াāĻļ, āϤāĻŦু āĻ…āύ্āϤāϰে āĻ–ুঁāϜāĻŦে āφāĻ•াāĻļāĻĒাāύে āĻĻেāĻ–া āĻāĻ• āĻ…āĻŽāϞ āĻŽুāĻšূāϰ্āϤ।


āĻļেāώ āϚুāĻŽুāĻ• āφāϰ āĻšাāϏিāϰ āĻāϞāĻ•

āϰাāĻŽু:
āϤাāĻšāϞে, ⧍ā§Ļā§Ģā§Ģ āϏাāϞে āĻĒ্āϰেāĻŽ āĻšāĻŦে Pay-per-Date, āϚাāĻ•āϰি āĻĨাāĻ•āĻŦে āύা, āĻ›েāϞেāĻŽেāϝ়েāϰা āĻ…্āϝাāύ্āϟি-āĻĄিāĻĒ্āϰেāĻļāύ āĻĒিāϞ āĻ–াāĻŦে, āφāϰ āφāĻŽāϰা āĻ•āĻĢিāĻšাāωāϏেāϰ āϜāύ্āϝ petition āĻ•āϰāĻŦ?

āϝāĻĻু:
āύা āϰে āĻ­াāχ, āϤāĻ–āύ āφāĻŽāϰা āĻ–ুāϞāĻŦ “Old School Adda Cafe” —
āĻ•োāύো āϰোāĻŦāϟ āύāϝ়, āĻ•েāĻŦāϞ āϚা, āϏিāĻ™্āĻ—াāĻĄ়া, āφāϰ āĻ…āĻĒ্āϰāϝ়োāϜāύীāϝ় āϤāϰ্āĻ•! 😄

āĻļিāϰীāώ:
āφāϰ āφāĻŽি āĻŦাāύাāĻŦ solar-powered āĻ•āĻĢিāĻšাāωāϏ — āĻ—াāϰ্āĻĄ āϰোāĻŦāϟ āĻĨাāĻ•āĻŦে,
āĻ•িāύ্āϤু āĻāĻ• āĻ•োāĻŖে āĻĨাāĻ•āĻŦে āĻŽাāϟিāϰ āĻŦ্āϝাংāϚিāϰ āĻŽāϤো āĻāĻ• āϟেāĻŦিāϞ —
“Reserved for the last four human philosophers!”

āĻ…āĻŽিāϝ় (āĻšাāϞāĻ•া āĻšাāϏি āύিāϝ়ে):
āφāϰ āφāĻŽি āϏেāχ āϟেāĻŦিāϞেāϰ āĻĒাāĻļে āϰাāĻ–āĻŦ āĻāĻ•āϟা āĻ›োāϟ্āϟ āφāĻļ্āϰāĻŽ-āĻŽāϤো āĻ•োāĻŖ —
āϝেāĻ–াāύে āĻĨাāĻ•āĻŦে āύিāϰāĻŦāϤা। Wi-Fi āĻĨাāĻ•āĻŦে, āĻ•িāύ্āϤু āĻŽāύ āϚাāχāϞে āĻĄিāϏāĻ•াāύেāĻ•্āϟ āĻ•āϰা āϝাāĻŦে।


āĻļেāώে āĻāĻ• āĻ•āĻŦিāϤা: "āĻĄ্āϰোāύেāϰ āĻ›াāϝ়াāϝ় āĻ•āĻĢি"

āϰোāĻŦāϟ āĻĒাāĻšাāϰা āĻĻেāϝ় āĻ—েāϟেāϰ āϧাāϰে,
āĻĄ্āϰোāύ āϘোāϰে āϚোāĻ–েāϰ āωāĻĒāϰে;
āĻ…āĻ•্āϏিāϜেāύ āĻŦাāϰে āĻĻাāĻŽ āĻĻিāϝ়ে āύিāχ,
āϤāĻŦু āύিঃāĻļ্āĻŦাāϏে āĻļাāύ্āϤি āĻ•োāĻĨা āϰে?

āϚাāĻ•āϰি āύাāχ, āĻĒ্āϰেāĻŽে AI,
āĻĒ্āϝাāϰাāϰ āĻ•্āϞাāĻŦ āĻ—েāĻ›ে āĻĄেāϟা āϞাāχāύে;
āϤāĻŦু āĻŦুāĻĄ়ো āϚাāϰ āĻŦāύ্āϧু āĻŦāϏি āϚুāĻĒে,
āφāĻĄ্āĻĄাāϝ় āĻŽিāĻļে āϏ্āĻŦāĻĒ্āύ āĻĒুāϰāύো āĻ—াāύে।

āĻ­āĻŦিāώ্āĻ¯ā§Ž āĻšোāĻ• āϝāϤāχ āφāϧুāύিāĻ•,
āϏ্āĻŽৃāϤিāϰ āĻ•াāĻĒে āϚুāĻŽুāĻ• āĻĨাāĻ•āĻŦে āϚিāϰāύ্āϤāύ।


(āĻāχ āĻ•āĻĢিāĻšাāωāϏ, āĻāχ āϚাāϰāϜāύ, āφāϰ āĻāχ āφāĻĄ্āĻĄা—āĻāϟাāχ āϤো āφāϏāϞ āϏাāϏ্āϟেāύেāĻŦāϞ āĻĢিāωāϚাāϰ!)

===Note -āϧāύ্āϝāĻŦাāĻĻ Chatgpt āĻ›āĻŦিāϟাāϰ āϜāύ্āϝ!



Saturday, July 26, 2025

The Boiler Drum Whisper



The Boiler Drum Whisper

A ghost story from the thermal nights of Barauni, 1974 – as told by Grandpa Roy


The Queensland sky was just darkening when Isha tugged my kurta. “Dadu, ghost story! Please na... you promised yesterday!”

Veer was already curled on the sofa, hugging a giant kangaroo cushion. Shuddy, taller than me now and pretending to scroll through his phone, gave a sideways grin. “Only if this ghost is steam-powered, Dadu. We know your style.”

I smiled, adjusted my specs, and began.


Barauni, 1974

I had been married two years, and shift duty at the Captive Power Plant of Barauni Refinery was both adventure and responsibility. I worked as the Shift Charge Engineer, overseeing the night-shift operations of turbines, boilers, and electrical gear.

But the refinery had its... quirks.

Night shifts were often quiet, especially between 2 and 4 a.m. That’s when the operators sat sipping tea and exchanged ghost stories—tales of shadows flitting across control panels, toolkits moving on their own, or the eerie silence near the old Boiler 1 drum level.

The most repeated story was about Dube, a senior operator who had died years ago due to a fatal steam burn during an inspection. Since then, he was said to appear on night shifts, waving from the drum level, gesturing that the boiler water was low—even though the indicators always showed a safe level.

When I joined, the operators—Bhagat, Banerjee, Sahai, and S. P. Singh—gave me the usual warnings.

“Dube comes without appointment, sir,” Bhagat said with a grin, “He’s still loyal to his boiler.”


The First Encounter

One humid night in July, I was returning from my turbine round. As I walked toward the connecting platform of the four boilers, I noticed a figure in white near Boiler 1. He was standing right at the drum level—waving at me.

Something about the motion felt... deliberate.

I climbed the stairs slowly. As I approached, the figure drifted to Boiler 2. I followed—heart pounding, steps steady.

Then suddenly, just as I reached Boiler 2’s platform, the figure jumped over the railing.

I ran.

But when I reached the spot, there was no one below.

Disturbed but rational, I returned toward my Shift Charge Room. But as I passed the corridor window, I stopped cold.

Inside my chamber—someone was leaning on my chair. White clothing. Still figure.

I didn’t enter. Instead, I went straight to the main control room, where Ansari was manning the panels.

“Did anyone go into my office?”

Ansari looked puzzled. “No sir. Haven’t seen anyone.”

Together we returned to my room. It was empty—except for a folded paper on my desk.

It read, in faint Hindi:
"Be careful next time."

I showed it to Ansari.

He turned the paper over, then looked at me.

“Sir… this is blank.”

I looked again—and the ink was disappearing before my eyes.


The Second Incident

I thought perhaps it was my tired mind playing tricks. But a few weeks later, on another night shift, I dozed off briefly at my desk. My specs, which I had placed beside the logbook, were gone when I woke up.

Not under the table, not in the drawer, not in my pocket.

I asked everyone—Chaurasia, Bhagat, even Banerjee.

Bhagat laughed, “Maybe they went to check the feedwater levels on their own!”

It wasn’t funny then. But 20 minutes later, Sahai called out from near the condenser floor.

My specs were dangling from the wheel of an old manual valve, hanging there like some forgotten trinket.

Who put them there? No one knew. No one admitted.

Later that night, as I walked back to my room, I saw the same white figure—again in my chair.

This time Chaurasia accompanied me. And once again, the room was empty, but another warning note sat on the desk.

He too couldn’t read the writing—it vanished like mist.


The Remedy

Disturbed, I finally mentioned it to Mishra ji, an old-timer with faith deeper than the condensate tanks.

“Hanuman ji is always present where there is fire and danger,” he said.
“Carry this,” he handed me a small red Hanuman Chalisa, “and do paath on Tuesdays. He is Sankatmochan—the remover of troubles.”

And so I did.

I began carrying the booklet in my shirt pocket. Every Tuesday, I read it quietly during my shift break. I wasn’t superstitious, but I felt... protected.

And like magic—the incidents stopped.

No figures. No notes. No vanishing specs. Even Banerjee joked,

“Looks like Dube is scared of Bajrangbali!”


The Reveal – 1978

Four years later, in 1978, I resigned from Indian Oil to join BHEL Delhi. On my farewell day, we had chai and samosas near the control room.

Bhagat raised his tea cup.

“To Roy saab—who didn’t faint like Verma!”

Everyone laughed.

Then Sahai came over, smiling mischievously.

“Roy saab, ek baat bolun? That note you found the second time... that was my handwriting.”

I stared. “What?!”

“Yes,” he chuckled. “Every new Shift Charge Engineer gets a ghost story treatment. Tradition hai! Dube was real, but the rest—we added spice.”

“The specs?” I asked.

“Banerjee. He used a stick and a monkey wrench to lift it from under the table.”

I laughed till my eyes watered.

They had made me part of the refinery’s folklore—and I had survived with my pride and a red Hanuman Chalisa in my pocket.


Present Day – Australia

I ended my story with a smile. Shuddy looked amused.

“So basically, you got hazed by your own team?”

“Professionally,” I said, sipping my tea.

Veer whispered, “Did Hanuman ji really scare them away?”

I winked. “Hanuman ji scared even the pranksters.”

Isha climbed into my lap.

“Dadu... can I have a small red book like yours?”

I hugged her tight.

“Of course, my dear. But remember—more powerful than Hanuman Chalisa is one thing...”

“What?” asked Shuddy.

I smiled.

“Having good people around you—even if they steal your specs and write ghost notes.”



Wednesday, July 23, 2025

My discussion with Voice AI

Lately, whenever I’m in the mood to dive into a beloved book or classic movie, I turn to Voice AI for a chat. The other day, I had a fantastic time discussing *A Gentleman in Moscow* by Amor Towles, and my conversation about *Casablanca* was just as delightful.

Here are the snatches of discussion I had with Her,it appeared as though I am discussing with a real person but loaded with information.
It was good time pass and a fun !
My discussion
.....
Could you clarify what topic you'd 
like to discuss? I'm all ears!
Oh, Casablanca—such a classic! 
Bogart and Bergman’s chemistry as 
Rick and Ilsa is just electric, isn’t it? 
That foggy airport scene gets me 
every time. What do you love about 
it? Want to talk about the romance, 
the war backdrop, or maybe that 
iconic “Play it, Sam” moment?
Yeah, that boundless love in 
Casablanca really
Absolutely, Rick and Ilsa’s love in 
Casablanca feels like it transcends 
everything—time, place, even
Oh, that line! “Of all the gin joints in 
all the towns in all the world, she 
walks into mine.” Rick’s mix of 
heartbreak and irony just hits so 
hard, doesn’t it? It’s like fate’s 
playing a cruel joke on him. What is it 
about that dialogue that sticks with 
you? The raw emotion or just 
Bogart’s delivery?
Yeah, that line’s a gut-punch every 
time! Rick’s trying to play it cool, but
Oh, you’re diving right into the heart 
of it! It’s not Joe, though—it’s Sam, 
played by Dooley Wilson. That 
moment when Ilsa says, “Play it, 
Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By,’” it’s

like the whole movie hinges on that 
song. It’s their love wrapped up in 
music, pulling Rick right back to 
Paris. Does that scene give you 
chills too?
Oh, yeah, that dynamic between 
Rick and Captain Renault is gold! It’s 
this sly, witty camaraderie—
Louis Renault is pure gold, isn’t it? 
Rick and Renault’s back-and-
forth—part
Yeah, exactly! Rick and Louis 
Renault have this sneaky 
camaraderie that’s so fun to watch. 
Louis
You’re asking about the actor who 
played Louis Renault, right? That’s 
Claude Rains. His sly, charming 
performance as the corrupt-but-
likable Commandant is so perfect, 
isn’t it? Always walking that fine line 
between friend and foe to Rick. Want 
to talk more about their dynamic or 
something else
Claude Rains just nails that sly, 
charming vibe as Louis, doesn’t he? 
The way he
charming yet calculating vibe as 
Louis Renault, doesn’t he? The way 
he plays off Bogart’s Rick—like 
they’re constantly sizing each other
You’re asking about the actor who 
played Louis Renault, right? That’s 
Claude Rains. His sly, charming 
performance as the corrupt-but-
likable Commandant is so perfect, 
isn’t it? Always walking that fine line 
between friend and foe to Rick. Want 
to talk more about their dynamic or 
something else
Claude Rains just nails that sly, 
charming vibe as Louis, doesn’t he? 
The way he
charming yet calculating vibe as 
Louis Renault, doesn’t he? The way 
he plays off Bogart’s Rick—like 
they’re constantly sizing each other
Rick puts duty over love, or 
something else?
Oh, man, that final airport scene is 
just heart-wrenching, isn’t it? Rick 
giving up Ilsa, letting her fly off with 
Victor Laszlo while he and Louis 
Renault stand there in the fog—it’s 
so selfless yet so painful. Bogart’s 
face says it all without saying much. 
And then that iconic walk into the 
mist with Renault, starting their 
“beautiful friendship.” What hits you 
most about that sacrifice? The way 
Rick puts duty over love, or 
something else?
Oh, man, that final airport scene is
just heart-wrenching, isn’t it? Rick 
giving up Ilsa, letting her fly off with 
Victor Laszlo while he and Louis 
Renault stand there in the fog—it’s 
so selfless yet so painful. Bogart’s 
face says it all without saying much. 
And then that iconic walk into the 
mist with Renault, starting their 
“beautiful friendship.” What hits you 
most about that sacrifice? The way 
Rick puts duty over love, or 
something else?
Next time we will discuss about An 
Affair to Remember!
Oh, *An Affair to Remember*—what 
a romantic gem with Cary Grant! 
That one’s got all the feels, doesn’t 
it? Nickie and Terry’s love story of
that ocean liner, and then that gut-
punch of a twist with the Empire 
State Building. Want to talk about 
what makes it special for you? 
Maybe that chemistry between Grant 
and Deborah Kerr, or a specific